


Saint Matthew of the Sharpie

by BustedFlush



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Karen centric, Post Defenders, a short character piece, some mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-18 01:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16107638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BustedFlush/pseuds/BustedFlush
Summary: Karen yanks open the closet door and finds herself caught in the eyes of someone she's taken to avoiding.





	Saint Matthew of the Sharpie

True summer hangs heavy over the city. The fire hydrants of Hell's Kitchen are hijacked into communal water parks, and its bodegas do brisk business in popsicles. Karen's managed to snag one of the last few. It's a little _(okay a lot)_ freezer burned, but half-broiled beggars can't be choosers.

Sitting cross-legged on her postage stamp of a kitchen counter, she chews and swallows the last frigid bite and winces through some intense brain freeze -- her penance for devouring a small hunk of ice in under fifteen seconds. She flicks the used popsicle stick into the waste basket by her desk _(three points to Page!)_ then licks a smear of cherry syrup from her fingers and turns her attention to the collection of photos, clippings, and notes tacked onto her wall.

Her super is going to be pissed off. Oh well. She's tried using tape, but its stickiness doesn't last in the humidity. One night, she'd returned home to find half her investigation scattered across the floor.

That had been a bad moment.

Assuming the worst, she'd grabbed for her gun, tucked snug in its purse holster. Then, she'd seen a newspaper clipping flutter down from the wall. Followed by a Post-It Note. She'd realized what had really happened, and her heart's jackhammer tempo had slowly eased.

So, now she uses thumbtacks. There are worse ways to lose a security deposit.

Most days, Karen's very good at not remembering those ways. Can squash it all back into the recesses of her mind. Today, though... Maybe the steady, unrelenting heat has worn her down. Maybe she's becoming as unglued as all that defunct tape. Maybe--

Karen cuts short that train of thought by hopping down from the counter. She makes for the clothing she'd shucked off and left in a pile on the floor the very second after locking and bolting her door. She'll either toss them into the hamper or tuck them properly away. Simple tasks. Orderly, mundane rituals. They help.

Father Lanton had been so diligent, so patient, explaining the rituals to her, walking she and Foggy through every rite, every moment of his service, of Matt's--

A sharp snap of fabric echoes in her ears, echoes the twist in her chest as she shakes the creases out of a skirt. Karen purses her lips and repeats the motion, a snap of her wrists, quick and hard, then heads for her closet. The blouse can go straight into the wash, but the skirt's good for another wear or two. She'll hang it up in the bathroom. Let it air. She just needs to grab the proper hanger.

Karen yanks open the closet door and finds herself caught in the eyes of someone she's taken to avoiding. A private version of herself _(i look at you and it breaks my heart_ ) staring back at her _(because all i can see)_ from the reflection in the mirror _(is just this endless, echoing loneliness)_ she's hung on the back of her closet door. A Karen Page no one else ever really sees.

No. Wrong. Foggy and Matt. This was the first way they had known her. Stripped of almost everything. Raw and scared and cornered. They'd sat across from her in that claustrophobic little room and asked if she would let them help her. And, they'd been kind. And, good. She'd sensed it even in her state of subdued terror, handcuffed, with the smell of Daniel Fisher's blood still in her nostrils.

She'd known they were good.

Was that why she'd decided to climb into their lives? Like a stray cat through an open window? The image of herself as such -- so poignant, so stupid, so fucking true -- surprises a sound out of her-- a strange, barking sob of a laugh --and the next thing she knows, she's dropped to her knees as if in prayer, fighting back tears and gasping 'shit, shit, shit, shit' into her cupped hands.

God, they'd been so strong for one another, she and Foggy. After they'd absorbed the dawning horror of Matt not coming through that door. She'd turned towards him, and he'd pulled her close, and in that moment she'd realized that if she came apart, so would he-- maybe irreparably. So, Karen had stayed still, and Foggy's arms had stayed tight around her until they could each bear to face the present and whatever came next. But, to be strong for Foggy had meant hiding the true maelstrom. The real ferocity of the grief, the sorrow, the guilt. And, the shame. Because along with everything expected, everything acceptable... there was rage. Irrational. Implacable. The rage of how dare you? How dare you go and die? How dare you just _leave_?

And, you would think, god you would think that after what? One, two, three, four fucking rounds of this soul wrenching shit-show that she'd know what to expect? That at least grief and all it entails could no longer blindside her? That after Daniel, after Kevin and Matt, after Ben...

Karen looks up, the thought of Ben seeming to act as an invocation, willing her to stand, to reach over the row of her lovely, professional, neatly hung armor to her closet's single wooden shelf and pull down a cardboard filing box. Ben's research on the Union Allied story. His gift to her. His legacy.

Karen carries the box over to her desk, sets it down, and lifts the lid.

And, there he is. Waiting. The Jack of Hearts. With half his face colored over with Sharpie and beneath that, Ben's hasty scribble-- 'Black Mask'.

Gently, she takes the card from the box. It feels both delicate and heavy in her hand.

"Hey you," she says. The two syllables ripple in the silence.

The card, she tucks beside her framed photo of Matt, Foggy, and herself, celebrating Saint Patrick's Day.

Some time later, she turns away from this makeshift little diptych and whispers, "Okay."

Whispers to herself. And, to them. Then, she turns and goes back to her collage of faces and facts and potential connections.

Back to the work at hand. Back to the story.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as an audition for an RP group, and I liked it enough that I decided to post it here, too. Just a quick scene of Karen coping/sublimating between DD s2 and 3.


End file.
